


A Very Drarry Christmas (a.k.a. Won't You Stay Another Day)

by Selly87



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2018, 25 Days of Harry and Draco, Bathroom Sex, Bickering, Challenge Response, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Morning, Christmas Presents, Christmas Smut, Christmas Tree, Christmas fic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I must be insane, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Married Life, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Where Is My Padded Cell, drarry love, photo challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-05 02:50:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16802194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selly87/pseuds/Selly87
Summary: Harry is forced to spend Christmas in New York on an extended work assignment. He hates it. Can Draco change his mind?Note:Dear readers, it's not been an easy decision but I have decided to abandon this story, since I don't feel I have given in my best effort and rather lost faith in being able to turn it into something good. I might revisit the story in the future but for now I will leave it as is. Picture challenges are apparently not for me.





	1. A Walk In The Park

**Author's Note:**

> I said I was going to do the challenge, then I had a nervous breakdown about it, then I tried to approach it logically, then I completely gave up on it and decided to take a break from responding to challenges, and now I'm of course doing the exact opposite and doing just what I said I wasn't going to do. Merlin, help me!
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/13414151@N02/45219189575/in/dateposted-public/)  
>   
> 

**_December 1 st, 2013_ **

“Potter!” Draco shouts and the moment his husband turns around, he throws a large ball of snow right at Harry, catches him completely off guard and laughs as Harry stands there with snow in his unruly hair, in his beard and, of course, stuck to his black winter coat. “Don’t you look smashing all covered in snow, _handsome_ ,” Draco teases and continues to laugh as Harry growls, bends down and scoops up two handfuls of snow. Draco watches him with amusement and calculated suspicion, waits for Harry to make a move, then crouches down and chuckles when Harry’s snowball soars right past him. “You’re an abysmal chaser, Potter,” Draco mocks, “if only you’d played that position while we were Hogwarts, I might have actually won a few matches against you.”

“Living on the edge today, Malfoy, aren’t you?” Harry glares, draws his wand and a second later Draco miraculously loses his footing and finds himself sitting in the snow, the cold wet seeping through his black jeans and boxer shorts. He glowers at Harry, gets back onto his feet and stalks over to where his husband is standing, wand still in hand, laughing without unrestraint. He places both hands on Harry’s shoulders, forces him backwards, past a snow-covered iron-wrought bench and continues to do so until he’s got his husband firmly backed up against one of the large trees, covered in Christmas lights, lining either side of the park’s footpath.

“Can’t get one over me unless you use a wand, can you now, Potter?” He snarls, keeps Harry firmly pressed up against the tree and leans close enough to feel Harry’s ragged breath on his lips.

“I think we both know I can,” Harry murmurs and the conviction in his eyes sends a jolt of excitement through Draco. He knows very well that Harry is well able to get one over him, it’s just that half of the time Harry, deliberately, doesn’t even try. When he does, he always, without fail, wins. Draco sighs, is about to withdraw and continue their leisurely stroll through New York’s famed Central Park when Harry brings his arms up and locks them around the back of Draco’s neck. “Thank you for staying here with me,” he whispers and before Draco has the chance to say anything in response, Harry presses his lips tightly against his. Draco swallows whatever is on the tip of his tongue, deems it as not important, and melts into the kiss, melts into the familiar embrace of Harry’s strong and muscular body.

He doesn’t particularly like Harry’s beard, but it’s slowly growing on him. He likes the weird softness of it, likes it more than he cares to admit. ( _Then again, it’s not like he needs to confess to Harry exactly how he feels about his facial hair._ ) What especially amazes him about it though is that it’s not at all spiky or rough, unlike say the hairs that grow on Harry’s legs, but insanely soft. Draco thinks that if Harry doesn’t shave that beard off before Christmas rolls around, he’ll have developed a very unhealthy kink for Harry Potter’s beard.

When Harry grudgingly breaks their kiss, they are both breathless and Draco just wants to apparate them back to that lovely penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side he rented for them both — not necessarily because he wants to have his wicked way with Harry, although that’s always a bonus, but because his bum is wet and he’s getting cold. The apartment had been a rather futile attempt to alleviate Harry’s rancour over the third extension of his assignment with the American Auror Team. Draco knows very well that having to spend Christmas away from London, away from his adopted family, away from everything he is familiar with and holds dear is weighing heavily on his husband. _At least he’s got me_ , Draco thinks and wonders whether he is being preposterous and overconfident in how much his husband really needs him.

“I’m going to give up being an Auror when we get back to London, if they ever let me leave that is,” Harry sighs and his confession startles Draco just a little. He thinks Harry must be joking, he knows his husband, knows that he enjoys nothing better than chasing down bad guys and turning the Department of Magical Law Enforcement upside down with his resolute mission to clean the place up.

“You are kidding, Potter,” Draco says, though not without a flicker of doubt.

“Nuh-huh, I hate this place,” he insists and Draco frowns at him.

“I think you hate the assignment extension more than the fact that you’re stuck in New York.”

“Wrong again, Malfoy. I don’t like this city. It’s big, it’s noisy, it never sleeps, the food is vile and that American Auror task force they have me working with wouldn’t know what sarcasm is if I hit them in the face with it.”

“They also haven’t been in a relationship with a Slytherin for the last fifteen years, so go easy on them,” Draco smirks. “I suspect my dark humour has finally rubbed off on you, Potter.”

Harry rolls his eyes, doesn’t say anything to that and Draco vows to find a way to make his husband fall in love with New York. Not that he is overly thrilled over the fact that they must spend Christmas abroad — _well Harry must, strictly speaking Draco is free to return to London any time he wants to, which he isn’t planning to do unless it’s together with Harry_ — but he also thinks that Christmas is magical and Christmas in New York especially so. He reaches for Harry’s hands, unclasps them from where they are still resting at the back of his neck, interlaces their fingers and taking a step back he drags Harry back onto the footpath. There is a lovely small stone bridge not far from here that offers a gorgeous view of the night sky and New York’s famous skyscrapers and Draco is determined to start his quest at getting Harry to enjoy their time in New York right there.


	2. All I Want For Christmas Is You...Naked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still have no plan for this, but heck, let's roll with it. I may be insane, but whatever. Maybe that's the beauty of it. Happy Christmas!
> 
> I had _The Pogues & Kirsty MacColl's "Fairytale of New York"_ for this, which is like my favourite Christmas tune ever, and as such a few lines of the song found their way into the story in the form of a quote.
> 
> [ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/13414151@N02/45219188935/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 

> _### The boys of the NYPD choir_
> 
> _Still singing "Galway Bay"_
> 
> _And the bells were ringing out_
> 
> _For Christmas day ###_

_**December 2 nd, 2013**  
_Shivering at New York City’s bitter cold, Draco pulls the door to the Muggle stationery shop open and slips inside. He takes off his gloves and his hat, looks around the small shop and gives the young girl behind the counter one of his most dazzling smiles. She blushes a little, flutters her eyelashes at him and giggles nervously when he approaches her. _How do straight blokes find this attractive?_ he wonders for the millionth time but keeps up the charade and suggestively leans over the counter, not close enough to be inappropriate but most definitely close enough to be flirty.

“ _Darling_ , where might I find your naughty Christmas cards?” he drawls in a thick British accent and watches her positively melt to the sound of his words. _What is it with American girls and British accents_ , he wonders. Everywhere he goes the girls practically melt whenever he opens his mouth to speak. It’s laughable and almost feels like his voice is the equivalent of a highly potent version of Amortentia. Then again, as long as it gets him what he wants and then some, he’s not at all bothered.

“Uhm— In the back, by— by the stockings,” she replies nervously and Draco winks at her.

“Ta, my love,” he smiles, saunters off to the back of the shop and vows to spend less time talking to Sean, the fifty-year-old Irish bloke who staffs the concierge desk in his and Harry’s apartment building and has been singing Irish Christmas songs for the past two weeks. Still, he can’t quite resist the temptation and hums one of Harry’s favourite Muggle Christmas songs, before giving in and singing the tune quietly under his breath. He browses the large selection of Christmas cards, soon finds the one he’s looking for and grabs it, along with a bright red envelope. As he makes his way back to the front, he also grabs some golden curly bow ribbon and approaches the counter to make his purchases.

* * *

“Harry, me lad, tough day at work?” Sean calls out, bright and chirpy, as Harry tiredly pulls the front door to his and Draco’s Upper East Side apartment block open, pleased to leave the wintery cold of the city behind. The concierge area is pleasantly warm and despite his sullen mood he still manages to find it in him to smile at Sean, who good-naturedly claps him on the back. “They’re working ye to the bone, Harry!” Sean sympathises with him and Harry nods vigorously.

“That they are,” he says, allows himself to stretch a little and unbuttons his coat to let the warmth of the building heat his chilly bones. He’s spent most of today out in the field and he is well and truly frozen solid. He doubts that he’s got any feeling left in his fingers and flexes them gingerly.

“Cuppa hot chocolate with some Baileys Irish Cream is what you need, me boy,” Sean grins and Harry laughs.

“Isn’t that supposed to be coffee with whiskey?” he inquires and frowns when Sean shakes his head.

“No, not at Christmas time, me boy, that’s when you just got to have a bit of chocolate with a generous shot of liqueur and of course marshmallows,” Sean winks at him and Harry barely manages to resist the temptation to engulf Sean in a tight brotherly hug. He sighs wistfully and a pang of an intense bout of homesickness threatens to overwhelm him, but he blinks the tears away and vows to keep it together until he’s made it up to the top floor and into the safety of his and Draco’s apartment. “Merlin, I hate this fucking country, I just want to go home,” he grumbles petulantly and Sean gives him an odd look but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he rounds the concierge desk and wordlessly hands Harry a red envelope with a golden curly bow ribbon.

“Yer gorgeous man left this for ye,” Sean tells him with a knowing smile and Harry frowns but accepts the envelope and turns it over. Draco’s written his name on it and Harry affectionately traces the beautiful slanted handwriting with the tip of his index finger and shudders. Suddenly feeling as excited as he felt during his first Christmas at Hogwarts, he tears the golden ribbon off, unseals the envelope and pulls out the card he finds inside. It’s plain white with the picture of a stunningly handsome blond male model with well-defined abdominal muscles, who is covering his private bits with a red Santa hat. Harry notes that Draco has stuck a magical photo of his head on top of the Muggle model’s face and Harry can’t help but chuckle as picture-Draco winks and repeatedly blows him a kiss.

“Sean, I’m the luckiest man alive,” he says quietly and doesn’t miss Sean’s assenting nod.

“That ye are, me boy, that ye are. Best never to let that one leave, he loves ye more than I think ye know,” Sean tells him conspicuously and taps his nose. “I got me a nose for these things, ye can learn a lot about people when ye take the time to look.”

“You can be sure that I’ll never let this one go, I fully intend to grow old with that grumpy nutter,” Harry laughs, thinks that if Draco ever hears him talk like that a divorce will be imminent and opens the Christmas card, Draco’s left for him, then momentarily forgets how to breathe.

> _Harry,_
> 
> _All I want for Christmas this year is you…naked._
> 
> _Come home already,_
> 
> _Draco x_

“Sorry, Sean gotta go,” Harry mumbles distractedly and all but scrambles for the lift as the doors open with a ping. He is vaguely aware of the sound of Sean’s laughter, repeatedly presses the button to the penthouse floor and sighs exasperatedly when the doors close agonisingly slow. “Gah, screw this Muggle shit,” he snaps at all the buttons and with the lift doors almost shut, he closes his eyes and envisions the entrance hall to his and Draco’s apartment, concentrates and disapparates into thin air. A second later he appears inside the apartment, shrugs his coat off and hangs it inside the walk-in wardrobe in the hallway. He takes off his dragonhide winter boots and purposefully steps onto the fake conjured snow on the ground. It’s soft to the touch and Harry follows the snowy path through to the living room, which doesn’t at all look like a living room anymore, but rather a miniature version of the Slytherin common room. Draco is lounging on the black leather sofa, legs stretched out and resting on the coffee table in front of him. He has them crossed at the ankles and has placed his open notebook strategically across his lap, restricting Harry’s view of what he knows to be a very delightful sight. Draco is completely naked, save for a Slytherin tie that’s loosely tied around his neck and his wedding ring that’s shimmering like a beacon on the third finger of his left hand.

A mistletoe appears out of nowhere, growing above Draco’s head and he briefly looks up, then locks his lust-darkened eyes on Harry, who swallows hard and licks his lips.

“Hello Auror Potter,” Draco purrs and Harry’s mouth goes dry. He flexes his fingers and stares, quite unashamedly so.

“Fuck, Draco,” he whispers and his husband’s devilish smirk sends a jolt of excitement through his body, fuelling his arousal.

“That’s the general idea,” Draco drawls, snaps his fingers and Harry shudders and finds himself naked as the day he was born. “C’mere, Auror Potter, or must I come and get you? I’m not above using this tie for things it’s not intended for.”


	3. Baby, It’s Cold Outside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/13414151@N02/45219188815/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 

**_December 3rd, 2013_ **

“It’s freezing cold outside,” Harry sighs and while Draco isn’t entirely sure whether _outside_ refers to anything beyond the tight cocoon of their winter duvet or well outside outside. Either way, he ignores his husband’s feeble complaints and continues to trail soft kisses along the side of his neck and his collarbone. He nips at the bed-warm skin, presses his lips against Harry’s shoulder, slides an arm around Harry’s waist and rests the flat of his hand right above Harry’s heart.

“So, don’t go outside,” he whispers into Harry’s ear, kisses his earlobe, and buries his face in Harry’s sleep-ruffled hair. He knows that Harry is way too professional to ‘ _pull a sickie_ ’ as they call it but that’s where Draco’s skills of gentle coercion are quite exquisite. _The sorting hat didn’t put me into Slytherin on a whim_ , he thinks to himself and chuckles into Harry’s hair.

“What’s so funny?” Harry wants to know and Draco chuckles some more and thinks that Salazar Slytherin would probably turn in his grave if he knew that Draco was using his slyness to persuade his Gryffindor husband not to go to work. _I’ve convinced him of worse_ , Draco reasons with himself.

“Nothing really,” he answers Harry’s question and Harry shuffles in his arms, turns to face him and looks at him with a huge frown. “Less suspicion, please, Potter, I’m your husband and in this bed, you’re not an Auror, you know the rules, _try_ and follow them,” Draco reprimands him affectionately, pulls his wand out from underneath his pillow and casts a warming charm on Harry. “Go have a shower, then get dressed. I’ve put suitable clothes out for you to wear,” he instructs Harry and although his husband raises his eyebrows in a silent question, he does as he is told. Draco thinks he has done a rather sublime job at training Harry to obey his every command and laughs to himself. _Like he would ever do everything I or anyone tells him to_ , he muses, resolutely kicks Harry out of bed and follows suit. He has a couple of things to prepare before Harry finishes with his shower.

About half an hour later Harry comes to find him in the kitchen, wearing a pair of fur-coated washed out blue jeans, his favourite black dragonhide boots and a snug-fitting black turtleneck jumper.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Mr Potter,” Draco grins and winks at his husband.

“What have you done with my Auror uniform?” he inquires, steals an eighth of an apple from a plate Draco’s placed on top of the breakfast bar and reaches for the steaming mug of coffee that’s clearly waiting for him. The mug does say _I contain Potter’s coffee, don’t touch!_

“Put it away for safe-keeping,” Draco smiles sweetly. “You’re not going to work today, I’ve got other plans for you,” he says mysteriously, stuffs a couple of things into his black leather satchel, takes a step closer to Harry and plants a sweet kiss on his cheek. “Eat your porridge, then meet me in the living room,” he instructs and leaves Harry be. He knows perfectly well that Harry’s dying with curiosity and Draco knows himself well enough to be wary that if he stays around his husband for too long, he’ll spill the surprise. Somehow, and Draco still doesn’t quite understand why though he suspects that it’s an annoying Auror skill, Harry can be rather sneaky when he wants information and doesn’t shy away from resolving to even the vilest forms of coercion to get what he wants. Ropes, Parseltongue and endless hours of his husband whispering dirty and most unspeakable things into his ears while he does absolutely nothing to follow through on any of the empty promises, he makes immediately fill Draco’s mind and he startles when Harry approaches him from behind and embraces him.

“’Tis only me,” Harry whispers into his ear and Draco tilts his head, grants his husband better access, and momentarily closes his eyes and gives into the sensations. He mentally counts to twenty, then resolutely turns in Harry’s arms, plants a soft kiss on Harry’s lips and Merlin when is that insolent man finally going to shave that beard, he wonders, puts that thought to bed for later re-examination and drags Harry into the hallway of their apartment. He opens the door to the walk-in wardrobe, pulls out Harry’s wine-red parka jacket and hands it to him. While Harry slips into it, Draco reaches for his own parka jacket. It’s an exact replica of Harry’s, except that his parka is grey, not red. Red, to this day, remains reserved for that bratty Gryffindor he fell in love with long before he confessed his feelings to Harry.

“Where are you taking me?” Harry asks, zipping his parka up half-way and pulling his black leather gloves out of one of the pockets and his red scarf out of the other. Draco takes the scarf, wraps it around Harry’s neck, then zips up his husband’s parka and answers his question with a cheeky wink.

“You’ll see soon enough,” he adds, readies himself, grabs his leather satchel and pulls Harry close. “Side-along,” he says matter-of-factly and Harry doesn’t object, simply wraps his arms around Draco’s waist and holds on tight.

Several minutes later they find themselves standing on a frozen snow-covered trampled footpath leading to the shores of Lake Hessian in Bear Mountain State Park in Upstate New York. “You said the city’s too noisy,” Draco explains as Harry gasps. He watches him cast his eyes over the lake, the water is still and the silence is wonderful. The wintery chill that lies in the air is fresh and entirely devoid of pollution or city noise. Bare bushes line the shore and its branches carry icicles and thick layers of snow. Tall trees stand proudly, partly covered by evergreen pine trees several storeys high. A stag stands proudly by the lakeshore, eyeing them curiously, seemingly not at all bothered or frightened by their sudden appearance and Draco silently delights in the benefits that come with being born a wizard. Animals aren’t naturally afraid of wizards and witches but usually curious and extremely welcoming.

“Merlin, Draco, this place is gorgeous, stunning even,” Harry breathes and Draco smiles. _Ten points to Slytherin_ , he thinks, reaches for Harry’s gloved hand, and slips his own gloved hand into his husband’s. Harry squeezes tightly and Draco watches him take a deep breath, tilt his head back and squint up at the clear winter sky.

“This country isn’t all shit, Harry,” Draco says softly, waits for Harry to look at him, then adds, “you just need to know where to look.”

“Or have a husband like you, whom I love more than anything in the world,” Harry breathes, closes the short distance between them and plants a warm, wet kiss on Draco’s lips.

Draco chuckles, smiles and taking a step backwards, he drags Harry along the path. “Come on, we’ll have a picnic on the other side of the lake, there’s a gorgeous little lodge, I may possibly have rented for us,” he says ominously and Harry’s carefree laughter makes his heart flutter. _I’ll make you fall in love with this place, you just wait and see, Harry Potter, I’ll weave a kind of magic for you like you’ve never seen in your entire life_ , he thinks to himself and feels extraordinarily pleased to know that Harry is happy, for the moment anyway. _A day at a time_ , Draco remembers the words of the mind healer he saw for several years following the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where Draco took Harry.
> 
> [ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/13414151@N02/44344350530/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 


	4. Candlelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/13414151@N02/46130499771/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 

**_December 4 th, 2013_ **

“Draco?” Harry calls out yet again but doesn’t receive an answer. He checks the kitchen one more time, looks around the living room and even peeks through the drawn curtains out onto their beautiful terrace that overlooks Central Park. Harry’s gaze lingers for a moment and still feeling rejuvenated from his trip out into the wilderness the day before, he can’t help but think that there’s a certain charm to the city that he hadn’t noticed before. “It isn’t London, but it’s got something,” he mumbles to himself, straightens up and heads for his and Draco’s bedroom. He doubts that Draco’s gone to bed already, for that he knows his husband far too well. Draco has a habit of waiting up for him and over the years it’s become their little ritual, one that Harry is rather fond of. There’s something special about coming home from work and finding his husband pottering about the house, doing ordinary things, waiting for his other half to return home. “Where the devil, have you disappeared to?” Harry asks the empty hallway, sighs, and opens the door to their bedroom.

He finds the room dimly lit and the distinct smell of Draco’s homemade beeswax candles wafts through the air. He squints, tries to adjust his eyes to the darkness and steps into the room. “Draco?” he calls again but still doesn’t receive an answer. _This isn’t like you_ , Harry thinks to himself, frowns but takes a moment to breathe in the sweet scent of those honey candles he loves so very much.

It is then, that he spots the cream-coloured envelope that’s propped up against a lone candle on his nightstand. A fresh branch from a pine tree — _which again serves as a gentle reminder of yesterday’s trip to Upstate New York_ — winds its way around the candle and as Harry approaches the zesty scent of orange peel and the sweet and spicy aroma of cinnamon makes him smile. He takes another deep breath and reaches for the envelope. It’s got his name on it and the handwriting is unmistakably Draco’s.

As he tears the envelope open, a tuxedo suddenly appears on the bed and Harry’s frown deepens. He unfolds the card and reads the message Draco’s left for him:

> Mr Potter,
> 
> Kindly dress appropriately, then meet me on the roof.
> 
> ( _Yes, the roof, Harry, we’re wizards!_)
> 
> Love,
> 
> Draco Malfoy
> 
> P.S. Do remember to extinguish the candles before you leave. I hear the New York Fire Department employs some rather fit firefighters but I’d rather not have them distract you from the only man you should be looking at.

Harry snorts at the ridiculous tone of the message. Only Draco would request that he meet him on the roof and only Draco would feel the need to remind him of the fact that he is a wizard. Only Draco would bring up the existence of beautiful men, then immediately remind him Harry that he isn’t supposed to look at anyone who isn’t his husband. He can practically hear Draco’s posh drawl as he reads the words and with an amused chuckle, he puts the card down, undresses and starts to put his tuxedo on. Merlin, he hates formal wear and the bowtie takes forever to fix. Somehow, he has the feeling that the moment he apparates onto the roof, Draco is going to start tugging at his bowtie, informing him that it is crooked and asking him how many more years it’s going to take before he finally learns how to put on a bowtie without it looking like he hexed it first.

As he slips into an insanely comfortable pair of black Oxfords, Harry summons his wand, extinguishes the candle on his nightstand and the other four on the dresser, casts a wordless _Lumos_ and a warming charm. He hesitates for a moment, eyes himself in the mirror, nods at his reflection, closes his eyes and focuses his mind, thinks about the roof of the building he is in and disappears with a faint pop. A moment later, he finds himself standing on the roof. He takes a look around, spots Draco almost immediately and heads over to where his gorgeous husband, also dressed in a black tuxedo, is standing. “Hey sexy, fancy meeting you up here,” Harry purrs and Draco turns to face him, grins mischievously but frowns the moment he lays his eyes on Harry’s bowtie.

“Heavens, Potter, when exactly are you going to learn how to put on a bowtie? I must have shown you a million times by now,” he frowns, reaches out and expertly fixes Harry’s bowtie. Harry doesn’t say anything but grins smugly and thinks he knows his husband all too well.

“Where are you taking me?” he asks instead and Draco gives his bowtie one final tug, then looks at him with a rather cheeky glint twinkling in his eyes.

“What makes you think I’m taking you anywhere?” he teases and Harry rolls his eyes.

“I know you, you’d never make me put on a tuxedo if all you wanted was a late-night rendezvous on the roof, you’d sooner request me to come up here without any clothes on,” he retorts, rather confident in his assumption that Draco cooked up some elaborate plan or other. It may be the middle of the week but that’s never stopped Draco from going out before, Harry does know that much.

“Je suis surprise, il parle français.”

“Évidemment que je parle français,” Harry rolls his eyes, entirely unfazed by Draco’s incessant teasing. That rotten Auror-assignment in Paris years ago was good for something; Draco is no longer the only one in their relationship who is bilingual — _Harry really wants to think that he’s always been bilingual because he can talk to snakes, but his mind reminds him that they’ve had that discussion before and that Draco will never accept Parseltongue as a second language_. Harry reckons that it’s because Draco doesn’t understand a word of Parseltongue, but he is smart enough not to say that to Draco. “So, Malfoy, where are you taking me? Spill,”

“So impatient, Mr Potter.” Draco rolls his eyes. “Broadway. We’re going to the ballet,” he finally offers an explanation and produces two theatre tickets. Harry grimaces and glances scornfully at the tickets in Draco’s hands.

“I _hate_ the ballet!” He exclaims, crosses his arms over his chest and is about to firmly tell his husband that he has no intention of sitting through an utterly boring performance of women dressed in tutus and men in skin-tight clothing, dancing on the tips of their toes and bending their limbs in ways that they aren’t supposed to be bend, when Draco cuts in before he manages to utter the first syllable.

“You’ll love this one, Harry, trust me,” Draco tells him softly, reaches out and draws him into his arms. Harry grumbles a little but gives in to Draco’s insistent pulling. Eventually, they are hugging each other and two seconds later they are no longer standing on the roof of their apartment building. Instead, they are now in a dark alley that Harry doesn’t recognise. Draco, however, seems to know exactly where they are. He takes his hand and Harry lets him. He also lets Draco lead out of that alleyway and lets him drag him two blocks down the street. He is rather grateful for that warming charm, he cast before leaving their penthouse apartment, and glances up at the sign above the theatre they have stopped in front.

“Swan Lake?” Harry asks and Draco nods with a smile.

“Yes, but not what I know you’re expecting,” he winks and they enter the theatre along with several other patrons. They have to queue for a bit until their tickets are checked, then Draco leads him to a VIP balcony box for two with a perfect view over the stage. As they take their seats, a waiter offers them two champagne flutes and Harry lets his eyes wander around the theatre. People are pouring into the place at a rate that leaves Harry with no doubt that tonight’s performance is, most likely, sold out. He glances at Draco and wonders what his husband hasn’t told him about the show. He also wonders what he did to deserve such a loving and attentive husband, who even though he fiercely enjoys winding him up, also seemingly always knows exactly what he needs when he needs it. He knows that Draco would never read his mind but sometimes it feels like the does. He still doubts that he really needs to see a ballet but he and Draco have been an item long enough for him to give Draco the benefit of the doubt.

Less than twenty minutes later, Harry gets his answer and as the lights go out, the music picks up and the curtain falls, he quickly realises that this performance of Swan Lake is unlike anything he imagined it might be. All the ballet dancers a male and all of them are bare-chested. They dance with an assertive sort of aggressiveness and are so alluring that Harry finds himself leaning closer to Draco and reaching for his husband’s hand. As the prince appears on stage for his solo performance, Harry can’t help but cast a sideways glance at Draco, who senses his eyes on him and meets his gaze.

“He reminds me of you, sensitive, elegant, sensual, full of desire, full of secrets, full of things he doesn’t say, won’t admit,” Harry whispers and leans in to steal a kiss. Draco gives it willingly and when Harry turns his attention back to the action on stage and watches the prince fall in love with the swan and share the most beautiful dance he’s ever seen, his eyes well up and he realises that he has just fallen in love with the ballet. _Sod you, Draco Malfoy_ , he thinks, squeezes Draco’s hand a little tighter and as the prince and the strikingly handsome swan share an almost kiss, he slides down in his seat and rests his cheek against Draco’s shoulder.

“Only on Broadway,” Draco whispers to him and Harry continues to follow the performance with rapt attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular adaptation of "Swan Lake" was actually first performed in London's West End before it hit Broadway, but I conveniently (and quite selfishly so) changed the facts around.
> 
> Here's the translation of those two French sentences, all grammar mistakes are my own (I do not speak a word of French and please _DO NOT_ tell my French teacher, she'll murder me in my sleep.)  
>  _ **“Je suis surprise, il parle français.”**_ \- "What a surprise, he speaks French."  
>  _ **“Évidemment que je parle français,”**_ \- "Well, of course, I speak French."


	5. Fireplace Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, I think I may have finally found a direction for this story, it's a tentative plot bunny so far but well, it works, I think.
> 
> [ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/13414151@N02/46130498311/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 

**_December 5 th, 2013_ **

“Here,” Draco offers and hands Harry a second mug of steaming hot mulled wine. It smells quite strongly of Draco’s very own mixture of cinnamon, star anise, cloves, nutmeg, cardamom, and vanilla with just a hint of orange.

“You do realise that I still have to work tomorrow, right?” Harry smiles and takes Draco’s own cup from him so that he can sit down on the large shaggy rug in front of their fireplace. Unfortunately, it isn’t a real fireplace and although Draco is still very much fighting the temptation to transfigure the strange muggle contraption into a real fireplace, he knows that he won’t get away with it. Apparently adding a chimney to their penthouse apartment constitutes as a major renovation and as such their rental agreement clearly states that it’s not allowed. Draco very much wants to buy the place and isn’t even all that fussed that it costs a rather exorbitant number of galleons but he is quite aware of the fact that Harry still doesn’t enjoy being stuck in New York and is desperate to return to London.

Having a permanent residence in the Big Apple would not go down well with Harry and Draco is, therefore, holding off on making the purchase. He has however been rather naughty and has used a fair bit of magic to convince the real estate agent not to list the property as ‘ _for sale_ ’, something he has purposefully neglected to inform Harry about since it isn’t exactly completely legal to be subjecting Muggles to memory-altering charms. Especially not if it’s for a wizard’s own gain. He very much reckons Harry would let him get away with it, but he also knows that Harry would force him to listen to a lengthy explanation of how improper, selfish and Slytherin his actions sometimes are. Draco’s heard that particular speech often enough, in variations of course, to know the outline of it by heart.

“A bit of mulled wine isn’t going to get you so drunk that you won’t be able to work tomorrow, Potter,” Draco rolls his eyes, leans back against the sofa, stretches his socked feet towards the warmth of the fake fireplace and takes his own mug of mulled wine from Harry. He takes a sip, relishes in the rather Christmassy taste of it and nods approvingly.

“You never know, you do brew a rather potent mulled wine,” Harry teases him and Draco shoots him an offended glare but, for once, doesn’t make a snarky comeback. It really is a rather simple wintery drink to make, though Draco has figured out that treating the whole process like it’s a potion, not a Muggle drink, rather improves the potency of the alcohol. He supposes the reason quite literally is the fact that he adds a bit of magic to the drink.

Draco smirks to himself, rather absent-mindedly reaches for his wand and is about to flick it to provide a little bit of background music, when he hesitates and turns to look at Harry instead. “What would you like to listen to?” he asks and Harry gives him a rather sly grin.

“Something sexy,” he replies without the slightest bit of hesitation and Draco chuckles. He briefly taps the tip of his wand to his lips, considers Harry’s request for a moment and eventually chooses a song he discovered just before Harry came home from a lengthy and exhausting training session with a bunch of Junior Aurors. Draco watches Harry as he listens to the song, watches him take a sip from his mulled wine and notes Harry’s gaze wandering off to stare into the fake flames of their fake fireplace. He suddenly looks a million miles away and something tells Draco that it’s not tiredness or the pleasant buzz of the mulled wine, that is putting that dazed look on Harry’s face.

“What’s on your mind?” Draco asks gently, scoots closer to Harry and moves his husband’s arm to rest around his shoulders. Harry turns his head slightly, glances at him and takes a long moment before he answers.

“I really don’t want to be an Auror anymore,” he sighs and Draco can’t help but thing that his husband sounds like a mixture between a petulant little child and a grown-up tired of being, well, a grown-up. Since it’s the second time in less than a week that Draco’s heard his husband say that he wants a career change, he, this time around, doesn’t automatically dismiss it as a frivolous notion fuelled by the fact that British Minister for Magic as temporarily reassigned (or ‘ _loaned out to without permission_ ’ — Harry’s definition of his current assignment varies on his mood of the day) Harry to work for Department of Magical Law Enforcement within the Magical Congress of the United States of America.

“What would you like to do then?” Draco wants to know. He’s fine with whatever Harry chooses because to him Harry’s happiness will always come first. That is what matters the most to Draco, everything else can find a way to deal with.

“Dunno,” Harry shrugs. “Be your full-time house husband and greet you at the front door wearing an apron that says ‘ _Draco Malfoy’s Sex Slave_ ’?” he chuckles and Draco rolls his eyes.

“You don’t have to give up chasing bad guys to wear that, in fact, if you really wanted to strip and don an apron, there’s one in our kitchen. I would even let you persuade me to transfigure it into a French Maid’s outfit.”

“Kinky, very _kinky_ , you have a seriously filthy mind, Malfoy,”

“And you only worked that out now?” Draco quirks an eyebrow at Harry, who laughs but doesn’t say anything else. “Now, don’t change the topic. If leaving the Aurors is what you want, what do you fancy doing instead?”

“I don’t know. Laze about the house? Enjoy all the money in my… _our_ vault? Bask in my glory and take advantage of my fame?” Harry offers and Draco instantly realises that while Harry may be serious about giving up his career as an Auror, he by no means devoted even just a minute of his time to think about next steps. _That’s just so you_ , Draco thinks to himself. Harry’s talent has always been to plough ahead instead of carefully thinking things through. _It’s what makes him such an abysmal chess player_ , Draco’s mind treacherously mocks his own husband and he tells his inner voice to be quiet. He decides when and how he will mock his husband and nobody, not even his inner voice, has the right to interfere.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter. What are you, five?” Draco glares at him and Harry has the decency to look just a little bit ashamed. Draco knows him well enough to know that Harry would never do any of the things he just mentioned. Those things, they just aren’t him and will never be him. “If you aren’t going to take this conversation seriously, we aren’t going to have it at all. You know I will support you no matter what you want to do, but stop mucking about like that.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry mock-salutes, takes a sip from his mulled wine and sighs. “I haven’t given it any thought, but I think I’d like to stop chasing bad guys, I’m just so tired of it all.”

“Are you sure that’s the reason or is it just because you’re stuck in a place you don’t want to be in?” Draco asks. Harry’s instant frown tells him he’s hit a nerve. “If you really want to resign from the Auror Department, Harry, you know I won’t hold you back but making a decision now is just plain stupid and you know that as well as I do.”

“When would be the right time to make this decision then? When Shacklebolt decides to send me to Australia for a lesson in personal growth? Or when he sends me to the Amazon?” Harry’s response is cutting and Draco can sense that he’s trying to pick a fight. Normally it is him who gets this way when he’s unhappy about something, but at this stage, they have been together for so many years that even some of his less than favourable character traits have rubbed off on Harry.

“When we are back in London and you have had a few days to relax, recover, see Teddy, and have had dinner at the Burrow, that’s when,” Draco replies calmly, entirely ignoring Harry’s attempt at turning their conversation into an argument. He knows that Harry is frustrated and needs to let off some steam but there are other ways to go about it.

Harry remains silent for several long minutes but pulls Draco closer. Draco finishes his mulled wine, shuffles into a horizontal position, bends his knees, and rests his head in Harry’s lap. He looks up at his husband, smiles softly, brings his hand up to cup Harry’s check. “I love you,” he murmurs and sighs when Harry runs his fingers through his hair and massages his scalp. Harry sets his mug aside and rests his left hand on top of Draco’s heart. Draco brings his own left hand up to rest above Harry’s, gently interlaces their fingers and tightens his hold on Harry. “Whatever you want to do is fine by me,” he reiterates, wanting, no needing, Harry to know that he is free to make whatever decision he wants. _Happiness first_ , Draco thinks but is still certain that he can get Harry out of whatever flunk he has worked himself into, he just needs to keep weaving his magic.


	6. Choosing The Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, a bit long this one. I blame Harry Potter.
> 
> [ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/13414151@N02/46130499701/in/dateposted-public/)

**_December 6 th, 2013_ **

“Malfoy, you better have a solid explanation for dragging me out of bed at half-past fucking four in the bloody morning,” Harry snaps grumpily from where he stands, leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a very strong cup of coffee his husband wisely handed him before he could get his hands on his wand. He still wants to hex Draco to the North Pole for his audacity to force him out of the bed at such an unreasonable hour and thinks he’s just about ready to jinx that blasted Slytherin smirk off Draco’s face. How on earth is it possible that Draco sodding Malfoy is _this_ cheery _this_ early in the morning? Harry can’t help but question not only his own sanity — _he did, after all, marry the smug bastard_ — but also his husband’s sanity.

“Aren’t you just a _joy_ to be around,” Draco frowns at him but remains otherwise nonchalant about Harry’s serious bout of early-morning grouchiness. It irks Harry just that little bit more. He has never been much of a morning person and doubts that this will ever change and simply fails to understand how Draco manages to be chirpy no matter the time of the day. _I bet they teach that in Slytherin, fake cheeriness_ , he crossly thinks to himself and takes another sip of his coffee. He nearly chokes on it when Draco explains why they are up at this horrid hour, “we need to go get a Christmas tree.”

“ _Please_ tell me you are taking the piss,” Harry gapes incredulously and the temptation to throw his coffee at Draco is immense, then again, coffee is his personal drug of choice and he’s never wasted any before. He doesn’t think he’s going to start now.

“Quite on the contrary, Harry, I’m deadly serious. I’m taking you to New Jersey to a small Christmas Tree farm and we’re going to choose a beautiful and magnificent Christmas tree for this place, something to get you in the mood.”

“The only thing I’m in the mood for is my bed,” Harry mutters into his coffee mug and feel rather annoyed over the fact that Draco won’t give in and indulge him in a full-fledged argument. “Go alone,” Harry pushes petulantly, quite sure that this will push Draco over the edge. Usually, it takes less than this to force an argument. He knows all the right buttons to push, they’ve been together long enough.

“It’s not up for debate, Harry. We’re going together and don’t even think I’m going to have an argument about this with you,” Draco says rather firmly and the stern look in his eyes tells Harry that his husband is resolute.

“Should I start calling you daddy then?” he pushes Draco’s buttons nonetheless, empties his coffee and stalks off to put on his shoes. He isn’t at all prepared for Draco’s comforting hug as he straightens after tying his shoelaces and for a moment, he stiffens but when Draco places a gentle kiss on his neck, his resolve melts and he relaxes into the familiar feeling of Draco’s arms firmly wrapped around his midriff.

“Don’t be such a grump, Harry, it doesn’t suit you,” Draco whispers into his ear and places a teasing kiss on his earlobe. “Be good and I’ll have a surprise for you when we get back,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly lower than just a second ago and filled with the seductive promise of something decidedly on the naughty side of things. Harry hums in approval, turns in Draco’s arms and kisses him fiercely. His fingers find their way underneath the hem of Draco’s warm winter jumper and the feeling of Draco’s warm, soft, smooth skin against his own, further aids to mellow the hard edges around the anger he feels over being up this early in the morning.

When Draco breaks their kiss and withdraws from their embrace, Harry feels just a little cold and eagerly slips into his warm winter coat, adds a scarf, a hat, and gloves. Another few moments later they are standing outside on their terrace and Harry slips his hand into Draco’s and holds on tight as Draco prepares to apparate them to their destination.

Less than a second later they disappear into thin air and as they arrive not too far away from the entrance to the Christmas tree farm and Harry slips a little on the icy ground beneath him. Draco steadies him easily and they head over to the farm. Harry notes, with great surprise, that they aren’t the only people to have arrived this early in the morning; the small customer car park is almost full. Harry is also surprised to find out that they have an appointment and silently stands beside Draco as he signs them in and hands over a handsome amount of money before a teenage boy, Harry supposes he’s probably around sixteen or seventeen, leads them through the shop and out to the back. They walk through a field of decently sized Christmas trees but only stop when they reach a long row of rather tall and very impressive-looking pine trees. Harry inhales deeply, relishes in the strong, fresh scent of pines and closes his eyes to fully appreciate the aroma. He is only vaguely aware of the fact that that teenage boy hands Draco a large saw and two pairs of logger gloves, then leaves to their own devices.

“Are we supposed to cut the tree ourselves?” Harry asks curiously and Draco nods.

“Yes, that’s the idea. I believe Hagrid always did that for all four Hogwarts houses.”

“That he did, bloody hard work,” Harry frowns.

“Which is why you will be doing the sawing and I will be picking the tree,” Draco grins slyly and Harry groans but accepts the saw and the pair of gloves his husband thrusts his way.

“Why did I know it would be like this?” he questions as he stalks after Draco, who is unhurriedly walking down the aisle between two rows of, Harry reckons, about fifteen-feet-tall Christmas trees.

“Because you’re a very smart wizard and know your husband better than anyone,” Draco chirps from in front of him and Harry gives him the finger. “Don’t be crude, Potter,” Draco admonishes him instantly and Harry purses his lips and wonders exactly how Draco knew he would react like that. “I know you,” Draco answers his question and Harry wonders whether Draco is reading his mind. “I’m not reading your mind, you dolt, I’ve just spent way too much time living in your pockets,” Draco answers that question too and Harry is about to bend down to make a ball of snow when Draco tells him, quite firmly so, that he would be better off not doing that.

“You are an infuriating bastard,” Harry sighs and Draco’s amused laughter makes him want to hex his husband into oblivion. _Must check the Auror handbook whether it says anything about allowances for Aurors with regards to doing that to their spouses without landing themselves in Azkaban_ , Harry thinks to himself and when Draco walks past the same row of Christmas trees for the second time he loses his patience with his overly meticulous husband. “Just pick a bloody tree already,” he snaps, channelling his inner Ron Weasley, and nearly bumps into Draco when his husband suddenly stops and turns to face him.

“Potter, one doesn’t just pick the first tee one sees. One looks, one compares, one thinks, then one chooses.”

“One will find themselves at the receiving end of a knee-reversal hex if one doesn’t stop talking like a posh aristocratic brat,” Harry scowls darkly.

“Ah but I _am_ a posh aristocratic brat,” Draco smirks and Harry sighs.

“Remind me again why I married you?”

“I think I have a list somewhere, I can give it to you when we get back home,” Draco replies sweetly and Harry is about to tell him that their extravagant New York abode is not home and will never be home but is distracted when Draco points at a tree and tells him that they’ll take this one. Harry eyes it curiously and wants to know why.

“These needles are firm, sharp and fragrant, all signs that the tree is in good health. The stem is well-developed and strong, the bark intact and when you shake it,” Draco pauses to do just that, “the needles don’t come off. So, Potter put those gloves on and show us how good a logger you are.”

Harry thinks he has a few choice words for his husband’s insolent bossiness but suddenly finds that he is rather looking forward to cutting that tree down. It seems like the perfect way to let off some steam and focus his energy on doing something useful rather than grumbling about the place. He wonders whether that was Draco’s intention all along and thinks that the answer to that is probably yes.

It takes him about half an hour or so to cut the striking Balsam Fir Christmas tree down and although Harry knows that he could have used magic to finish the job faster, he feels an odd sense of accomplishment at having mastered the task with only the use of his two bare hands and a sharp saw. Draco helpfully steadies the tree to ensure that it won’t drop on his head and by the time Harry finishes, he is sweaty, dirty and has pine needles digging into his skin. He straightens up, stretches a little and groans when his back protests. Draco carefully lets the tree drop to the ground but uses a bit of magic to ensure it won’t take down any other trees or hit someone who might choose to suddenly emerge from between two nearby trees.

“I actually enjoyed that,” Harry smiles, drops the saw onto the snowy ground and exchanges his logger gloves for his own gloves.

“The enjoyment of a job is prudent to one’s mental and physical wellbeing,” Draco tells him and before Harry can question him about his strange comment, his husband walks off to inform one of the members of staff that they have cut down a tree and are ready to get it wrapped up. Harry doesn’t follow him but instead crouches down beside the tree, takes one glove off, and absent-mindedly strokes his hand over the prickly branches of the tree he just cut down. Draco’s words play on his mind and he contemplates them carefully. There’s nothing wrong with his physical health, he knows that much. Draco drags him to St Mungo’s for regular check-ups and it never matters how much he protests, Draco always gets his way and the test results have, so far, always given him a clean bill of health.

Lately though, and Harry feels mature enough to admit this to himself, his mental wellbeing has taken a rather steep nosedive. He misses home, doesn’t want to spend another day working for Magical Congress of the United States of America and considers it a grave punishment rather than an opportunity to grow and learn. Those Yanks just don’t do things the way they do it in Britain and Harry cannot, for the life of him, acclimatise himself to that strange sense of humour of his team, his subordinates, and the Head of the American Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He does like the relative anonymity living in New York grants him but he after six months of it he misses the familiar buzz he feels when he heads down Diagon Alley or walks through the Ministry’s Atrium and people great him with a warm hello, inquire about his health, his job and remind him to find time for a hearty lunch or dinner, depending on the time of the day. While he used to hate getting recognised wherever he went, he now finds that he relishes in the relaxed friendliness all around him. Here in New York, everyone seems to always be rushing off to somewhere and there simply doesn’t seem to be any time for a tea break, a bit of mindless chatter and that dry British sarcasm he is so very fond of.

“Knut for your thoughts, Potter,” Draco firmly drags him out of his reverie and rising to his feet, Harry simply reaches for Draco’s hand and squeezes it firmly, then turns his attention to observing two sturdy guys manhandle their Christmas tree and drag it off through the snow and to the front of the farm where they measure it, wrap it up and lean it against a nearby wall.

“You are the best thing to ever happen to me,” Harry mumbles, the sweet declaration of love for Draco’s ears only. Draco turns his head, faces him, doesn’t say anything but squeezes his hand and Harry feels just a bit teary-eyed. “I know what you’re trying to do and I love you so much for it that I don’t have the words to describe how truly wonderful you are,” Harry continues and Draco merely smiles.

“I’m not doing anything, Harry, just getting you excited about Christmas, you’ve always loved that time of the year,” Draco grins and Harry wants to say something to object but doesn’t. Instead, he idly stands by as Draco surreptitiously casts a charm on the tree to make it lighter, then grudgingly releases Draco’s hand and helps him to carry the tree through the shop and out to the front. They head towards a secluded corner where Draco expertly shrinks the tree until it’s no bigger than a handsome bouquet of flowers and hands it to Harry. They hold hands and Draco swiftly apparates them back to their home, where Draco sets about preparing breakfast while Harry finds the perfect place for their tree, restores it to its original size and height, uses steadying charms to keep it from crashing onto the sofa and wrangles it into a conjured tree stand which he — _at Draco’s instruction_ — fills with water to keep the tree fresh for longer.


	7. The Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/13414151@N02/46130499561/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 

**_December 7 th, 2013_ **

“You’re one lucky bastard!” Justin Rowan, his partner for the day, says with a massive grin as Harry almost nonchalantly accepts an extravagant bouquet of brightly-coloured Peruvian Lilies from one of the secretaries upon his return to the Auror Department. Harry almost instinctively sticks his face into the bouquet of fresh flowers, inhales deeply and entirely ignores Rowan’s comment, but thinks that _yes, I am indeed rather lucky_. He chuckles softly and fondly remembers the first time Draco sent him flowers, a little over ten years ago. After returning from a day in the field, he had returned to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement only to discover a vase with a massive bouquet of yellow and orange roses sitting on his desk in the open plan office. Mortified, and thinking some secret admirer had sent them, he had refused to go near them, reasoning that someone had probably doused the roses with Amortentia. Ron had merely rolled his eyes at his stupidity and had pulled out a cream-coloured flower card from amidst the flower bouquet and flung it into his general direction. “They’re from your pet ferret,” he had said, a comment for which Draco had hexed him some three weeks later.

Harry withdraws his face from the flower bouquet, wrinkles his noses and sneezes once, then carries the flowers over to his desk and sets them down right in the centre. He really hates this open-plan office arrangement and misses his personal Head Auror office back home. _Yet another reason to quit_ , a childish voice in his head whispers. The lack of privacy irks him and he is completely aware that half of the Auror Department is now staring at him as he pulls the flower card from Draco’s unexpected gift. He unfolds it and smiles at his husband’s elegant handwriting.

> _Meet me at Absolute Bagels._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _D x_

The message is short, to the point and Harry’s heart skips a bit. Bagels are about the only New York City food he likes, _loves_ even, and his mouth waters at the mere thought of sinking his teeth into a freshly-made bagel. If he had anything you say he’d be eating them morning, afternoon, _and_ evening. Sadly, Draco very much objects to that and after stubbornly trying almost anything to get his way, Harry has given up. He glances at the watch on his wrists, notes that he still has another hour left before he can officially clock off, but decides that he doesn’t give a fuck. He pulls a single lily from the flower bouquet, turns on his heel and heads for the exits.

Once out on the street, Harry allows himself a moment to relish in the fresh air, although what with all the cars rushing past, he highly doubts that he is breathing anything but a delightful mixture of carbon monoxide and other poisonous gases. Throngs of people are busily rushing up and down the pavement and Harry is sure that none of the Muggles around him would notice were he to just apparate into thin air. Still, he knows better than to do so and easily slotting himself into the army of commuting New Yorkers, he decides to take the subway. He isn’t sure how long it will take him but he knows that Draco will wait, no matter how long it will take him to get there.

As it turns out, it takes Harry a solid hour and only because he gets on the wrong subway and a fellow passenger helpfully tells him so when he asks why they are heading further away from Manhattan Valley rather than towards it. He is grateful for the help and when he eventually arrives at the bagel shop, he half expects it to have closed already, but it hasn’t. Instead, it’s buzzing with a steady stream of customers. He fails to spot his husband anywhere, momentarily worries that Draco has left after all but a young beautiful woman distracts him with a smouldering smile (Harry knows it’s supposed to turn his knees to jelly and make his heart flutter but he just doesn’t swing that way). “Draco’s upstairs, handsome,” she sing-songs and Harry laughs and shakes his head when she, with a rather exaggerated sigh, adds, “why do the best ones always have to be gay and married?”

“Thanks, Birgit,” he says, doesn’t pay any heed to her lament but hands her the flower he extracted from Draco’s bouquet, and heads for the back of the shop when Birgit calls after him. He turns, looks at her and raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Next time you decide to be a stranger for a month, I’ll name a bagel after your insides,” she promises him, her nose almost disappearing between the flower petals, and he rolls his eyes, ignores her idle threat as well as the ‘ _staff only_ ’ sign on the door at the far back, which he pulls open and climbs the narrow staircase. He still finds it completely confounding that his husband chooses to work part-time at a Muggle bagel shop. Out of all the things Draco could do with his time and skills he has opted for manual labour, has selected a job where he deals with crowds of hungry Muggles and earns a laughable amount of money for dealing with other’s people morning grumpiness. Then again, he supposes, Draco, at this stage, probably has a PhD when it comes to dealing with morning grumpiness. He also appears to be getting an immense joy out of making bagels, one Harry can hardly fathom. His husband is a highly accomplished Potions Master who has worked with some of the most talented potioneers in Europe, yet here he is, living in New York merely because Harry is on a forced assignment, making bagels for strangers as though it is the most rewarding work in the whole wide world. Harry thinks he sometimes really doesn’t understand his husband.

“There you are,” the familiar sound of Draco’s voice pulls Harry’s attention back to the present.

“Your Majesty called,” Harry grins lopsidedly, approaches Draco and kisses him rather soundly.

“Say that again and you’ll find yourself on the receiving end of a stinging hex that’ll have you walk funny for the rest of the week,” Draco warns him.

“Kinky, I’d love for you to fuck me hard actually,” Harry replies with a serious face and without as much as batting an eyelid. Draco’s eyes darken a shade or two and Harry is pleased that he still has that effect on his husband. He hopes it will never change.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Draco gives him a stern look that Harry finds unsurprisingly stimulating, then motions over to the table by the window. A candleholder with three long, white candles stands in the centre and the table is set for two. Two rather large bagels and two glasses of red wine wait for them and Draco flicks his wand at the table to remove the Stasis Charm he has clearly placed on it. His other hand finds the small of Harry’s back and Harry allows Draco to nudge him towards the table just as the candles flicker to life. He doesn’t object at all when Draco pulls a chair out for him but sheds his coat before he sits down and licks his lips at the sight of the delicious bagel in front of him. His stomach rumbles in anticipation and but he politely waits for Draco to take a seat across from him.

“What’s this one called?” Harry asks, curiously and eyes the bagel with the excitement of a five-year-old waiting for Santa Claus. It’s stuffed to the brim with goodies and smells divine.

“I call it the _Harry Potter Leaky Cauldron Christmas Special_ ,” Draco smirks at him and Harry roars with laughter.

“That’s an absolute mouthful,” he says, reaches for his glass of wine, tips it slightly towards his husband in a silent toast, takes a languid sip and savours the taste of every single drop.

“As is that bagel,” Draco notes as he reaches for his own glass of wine. “I’ve put all your Christmas Dinner favourites on it,” he informs Harry, who momentarily crunches up his nose as he contemplates what Draco just told him.

“So, turkey and treacle tart then?” he asks and Draco rolls his eyes and mutters something into his wine glass that almost sounds like ‘ _idiot_ ’.

“Don’t be disgusting, Potter,” he frowns, then adds, “the treacle tart is waiting for you at home.”

“Best husband ever,” Harry grins from ear to ear, doesn’t intend on waiting any longer and instead grabs his bagel with both hands, brings it to his lips and takes a hearty bite. He moans at the explosion of flavours and for the briefest of moments, he feels like he is sitting at the long dinner table in the Burrow, having Christmas dinner with the entire Weasley clan and his two best friends. He swallows, takes another hearty bite, completely ignores Draco’s frown, and succumbs to another indecent moan. Today, he thinks, being stuck in New York isn’t so bad after all. He also thinks that Draco is trying to teach him yet another lesson but he is presently too focused on that explosion of flavours in his hands to care about anything else.


	8. Morning Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, since I decided to devote all of yesterday to writing a very kinky 8000+ words long one-shot, I'll be playing catch up. The fact that the eighth chapter of his fic also contains smut and is without a doubt bordering on kinky, just proves that I devote too much of my time to thinking about delicious Drarry sex. Also, I blame a certain someone, *glares hard*. You know who you are!
> 
> [ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/13414151@N02/46130499071/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 

**_December 8 th, 2013_ **

“Blast-ended skrewts! Fucking slave drivers! Ordering me into work on a Sunday, because it’s not like I haven’t already worked six fucking days straight! Who the fuck do they think they are?” Harry snaps after he finishes trimming his beard and slams his electric Muggle shaver down on the marble counter next to the extravagant sink. He uses decidedly too much force and the plastic handle cracks.

Draco, who is casually leaning against the closed bathroom door, a white fluffy towel wrapped low around his hips, crosses his arms over his chest and chuckles with amusement and does not point out that Harry missed a day of work when they took that unplanned day trip to upstate New York. “You’ve got a very potty mouth on you this morning, Potter,” he says, eyes fixed on Harry, as his husband turns his head slowly and looks at him. _Merlin, shave that beard off before I bury my cock and balls in it,_ Draco thinks but keeps calm, collected, remains composed and cool and doesn’t at all act as though he’s just had a rather filthy thought about his husband’s facial hair.

“So?” Harry challenges him, straightening up a little, looking rather defiant. _As if he stands a chance,_ Draco thinks and inwardly he is laughing but to the outside, his expression is perfectly nonchalant.

“So, what?” Draco throws the challenge right back at him, knows exactly what Harry is playing at. It’s always the same with him.

“Do you want to do something about it, Malfoy?” Harry teases provocatively and Draco slowly pushes himself off the door and walks up to Harry. He stops right in front of him, places a single finger on Harry’s firm, toned chest and runs it slowly down Harry’s sternum then swerves to the right and slowly circles his fingertip around Harry’s pert nipple and scratches his fingernail over it, using just enough pressure to force a low whimper from Harry’s lips.

“What would you like me to do about it?” he asks, his voice low, challenging, yet perfectly in charge of the situation and Harry’s eyes darken instantly at the veiled promise of what’s about to come…or isn’t.

“ _Anything_ —” Harry breathes and his chest expands rapidly as he tries to control his breathing.

“Anything, huh?” Draco echoes, trails his finger lower, over Harry’s divine abdominal muscles that flex underneath his barely-there teasing, and not at all satisfying touch. He stops just above the towel, Harry wrapped around his hips after his shower, stills for a moment, then runs his finger along the hem of the white, fluffy towel, made entirely of one-hundred per cent pure Egyptian cotton. Harry’s stomach muscle flex and quiver underneath his touch as he lets out yet another desperate whimper. “Such a naughty boy you are, mouthing off like that this early in the morning, fuck this and fuck that,” Draco drawls, deliberately laying his posh aristocratic accent on thick. Harry’s lips part and he lets out a low, barely audible moan. “Maybe I should fuck you, fuck you hard, fuck all that aggressiveness right out of you,” Draco contemplates, his finger still ghosting over Harry’s warm skin, teasingly slipping just under the hem of the towel.

Yet another low moan escapes Harry’s mouth and Draco smirks. “Where’s all that sass now, Potter, huh? Is this all it takes to reduce you to a quivering wreck? That desperate for me to put my hands on you?”

“Bite me,” Harry snarls feistily and angry heat briefly flares up in his emerald green eyes. Draco merely chuckles, entirely unfazed. _I’ll get you where I want you, you just wait_ , he thinks to himself. _On your knees, sucking my cock, bend over the counter, taking my hard cock up your arse,_ his mind helpfully conjures a few delectable images and Draco smiles.  
  
“Say please, now, Potter, and I may give you what you want,” he stares at Harry, slips his hand just that little bit lower and pulls the towel right off Harry’s hips. He presses his thumb to that soft spot just half an inch above Harry’s hipbone and circles his thumb over it, repeatedly, then splays his fingers across the top of Harry’s arse and squeezes, making sure that his fingernails dig into the smooth skin. “ _Say it_ ,” he hisses lowly, fixes his eyes on Harry, and silently dares him, dares him to try and not obey.

Harry purses his lips and Draco brings his other hand up to Harry’s nipple and assaults it once more. First, it’s tender circles, then firm rubs, then a scratch, then he squeezes the hard nub between his fingers, squeezes and rolls, squeezes until Harry gasps and his hand comes to rest on top of the marble stone counter he’s half leaning against. His fingers clench and unclench and Draco chuckles. Harry whimpers and Draco doesn’t stop is sweet torture of Harry’s nipple. His thumb is still drawing circles just above Harry’s hipbone and he can feel Harry’s growing erection between them. He breaks their eye contact to look down at his husband’s impressive, thick long cock, pulsing with desire, steadily filling with blood as Harry is getting increasingly aroused. The perfect mixture of Draco’s gentle caress of his hip and stinging pain he’s subjecting Harry’s nipple to have the desired effect. Draco looks back up, looks into his husband’s eyes. A devilish smile ghosts around his lips and he smirks. “ _Say it_ ,” he snaps, squeezes Harry’s nipple hard enough to cause a surge of pain, to force submission. Harry whimpers and trembles beneath his touch.

“Please,” he whispers, the plea barely audible over his ragged breathing.

“Such a good boy,” Draco rewards him with a little praise, releases his nipple and coats his own finger with warm, wet saliva, then rubs it tenderly over the abused nipple, soothing it. Harry hisses, trembles, then sighs. “Hm, what shall I do with you now, Potter?” Draco muses and stops rubbing circles just above Harry’s hipbone. Instead, his hand trails down towards Harry’s crotch and his fingers ghost over Harry’s straining erection. Harry instantly bucks his hips.

“Tsk-tsk,” Draco clicks his tongue. “Naughty, I say _when_ , Harry, I set the pace. You wanted me in charge, you asked for it,” he reminds him and Harry whines. It’s a delectable sound, even more so because Harry has a bit of a temper on him, suffers from serious bouts of morning grumpiness and can be a bit of a bratty git when he wants to be.

Draco smirks, he doesn’t care, he knows how to make Harry melt underneath his touch and he intends to make this exceptionally good. Without the slightest bit of warning, he flips Harry around and presses tightly up against his back. “Hands on the counter,” he orders and Harry braces himself on the counter, palms pressed flat against the cool marble. “Yes, just like that, look in the mirror, look at yourself,” he says next and Harry lifts his head, stares at them both in the mirror. His eyes are dark with want, with lust, with desire and while there’s still a certain level of challenge in his eyes, Draco knows his husband won’t resist anything he’ll say.

“Look at that pretty face of yours, so wanton, tell me how bad you want this,” Draco pushes, looks at Harry through the mirror.

“Please,” Harry begs him, his voice a low, faint whisper.

“Please what, Harry, my love?” Draco asks. “Tell me what you want.”

“Touch me, _please_ ,” Harry whines and Draco thinks he’s never heard a more beautiful sound. He feels so smug because nobody has ever seen this side of Harry and nobody ever will. That side of Harry is for his eyes and ears only and the knowledge of that makes Draco feel ecstatic. He feels superior, feels extremely possessive and oh so lucky that Harry has granted him the privilege to see him come undone like this. The rush of power Draco feels is incredible, enough to get drunk on. He, thankfully, knows how to control it, knows how to let it guide him but also knows how to keep himself from taking things a step too far.

“All in good time,” Draco reassures, runs his hands up and down Harry’s strong arms, over his shoulders, down his chest and to over his flexing stomach muscles. Instead of touching Harry’s cock, he firmly grabs Harry’s hips, takes a step back, and tugs Harry’s hips backwards, then nudges his feet apart. Harry mewls softly, obeys and Draco presses himself up against Harry’s back and bites his shoulder, bites hard enough to bruise. At the same time, his hand closes around Harry’s cock and he strokes him firmly and possessively. Harry groans, thrusts his hips forward and Draco sucks at the bite marks, soothes them with the tip of his tongue and circles his thumb over the head of Harry’s leaking cock. “You like that, don’t you?” he whispers against Harry’s now slightly perspired skin, kisses the abused flesh, and stills his hand but keeps it firmly wrapped around Harry’s cock. “Tell me!” he snaps menacingly when Harry only moans but doesn’t say anything.

“Yes!” Harry speaks hastily, “Merlin, fuck, yes, I _love_ it,” he adds and Draco clicks his tongue again.

“Still all potty-mouthed, I see,” he murmurs, nips at the skin on Harry’s shoulder and doesn’t say anything when Harry hangs his head and clenches his fingers into tight fists but keeps himself braced up on that counter. Draco slowly moves his hand, strokes Harry’s cock with agonisingly slow movements and drags one low moan after the other from Harry, who doesn’t even try to thrust into Draco’s hand, just lets it all happen, lets Draco control him. Draco thrusts his hips forward, presses his own towel-covered erection against Harry’s arse and doesn’t increase the speed of his strokes. He keeps that slow rhythm, brings his free hand to rest on Harry’s hip and uses his index finger to continuously circle that soft spot just above Harry’s hipbone.

Harry trembles underneath him, his arms shake but he stubbornly remains upright and groans when Draco bites him again, teases the dark-red head of his cock and smears his pre-come all over the place. Draco is relentless, he ignores Harry’s begging, ignores his pleas for _harder, faster, more, please Draco, please, I need you, please_ entirely and works Harry into a frenzied state of unadulterated need. When he has him tethering right on the edge, he squeezes the base of Harry’s cock, purposefully ruins that orgasm and chuckles when Harry growls with frustration. He fully expects Harry to utter a few choice words and is surprised when Harry doesn’t say a word. “Hm, you’re being a rather good boy, Auror Potter, aren’t you?” Draco teases and Harry raises his head and looks at him through the mirror. With his face flushed red, his forehead sweaty and his lips swollen and a delicious shade of red he looks positively debauched. “Sex on legs,” Draco whispers and Harry moans, doesn’t break their eye-contact and Draco notes that Harry’s earlier defiance has all but vanished. Instead, he notes, the desperate need to please him fills Harry’s eyes. _And please me you will_ , Draco thinks.

He trails a series of kisses along Harry’s spine, working his way down his back, right to the top of his pert arse, where he mumbles a somewhat unnecessary cleaning spell. He then uses both fingers to pull Harry’s arse cheeks apart, slides his tongue right into the crack and drags it down to Harry’s entrance. Harry’s entire body trembles and Draco steadies him by gripping his hips firmly. He squeezes hard, rubs that familiar spot just above Harry’s hipbone and twirls his tongue around Harry’s hole. The tight ring of muscle flexes beneath his tongue and Harry lets out a long, languid moan. Draco pushes his tongue inside, slowly fucks Harry with it and wraps one hand around Harry’s erection. He strokes it in time with the thrusts of his tongue and edges Harry closer and closer to his orgasm.

“Mmm, yes, please, more…” Harry moans and Draco gives him a little more but stops instantly when it becomes apparent that Harry is about to lose it. Harry curses underneath his breath and Draco bites his arse, bites it hard. Harry chokes on his words, yelps, groans, and swallows the rest of the obscenities that were clearly still on the tip of his tongue.

“Didn’t you want to be good for me, Harry?” Draco asks, rises to his feet, and wraps his arms tightly around Harry’s waist. He grips Harry’s leaking cock and circles his thumb over the tip, agonisingly slow. “Seems to me we best give your mouth something to do, lest you keep up with all that bad language,” Draco chuckles. “On your knees,” he says harshly and for a moment Harry doesn’t move. It is only when Draco glares at him through the mirror and his about to bellow his order that he obliges, turns in Draco’s arms and sinks to his knees in front of Draco. “Hm, that’s much better now, isn’t it?” Draco smiles, runs his fingers through the damp mess that is Harry’s hair and cups his chin with his thumb and index finger. “Suck me,” he whispers. “Suck my cock, you know you want to.”

Harry moans, parts his lips slightly, and Draco takes hold of his cock and purposefully brushes it against Harry’s check. Harry’s beard tickles his aroused flesh and it doesn’t. It feels so good that Draco just wants to keep doing it, but he’s already asked Harry for something else and he really wants to watch his husband suck his cock, wants to watch his hard cock disappear inside Harry’s mouth, wants to feel that wet tongue against his erection, wants to push in so deep Harry will have to fight the urge to gag. He rests the tip of his cock against Harry’s lips and Harry opens his mouth further, lets Draco’s cock slip into his mouth. He takes just the tip, swirls his tongue around the head, closes his mouth and sucks, sucks like he’s enjoying the best lollipop in the world. A low moan escapes past Draco’s lips and he combs his fingers through Harry’s unruly hair, pushes deeper into the hot cavern that is Harry’s mouth and delights in the pressure of Harry’s tongue against the underside of his cock.

“So good, you really are quite excellent at this, Harry,” Draco moans, pushes a little deeper and Harry’s hands come up to rest on his thigh just as his eyes widen. Draco nods at the wordless cue and gives Harry a moment to adjust. When Harry squeezes his thigh, he pushes deeper. Harry makes a little gagging noise as he struggles to adjust, and breathes sharply through his nose. Draco pulls back a bit then thrusts into Harry’s mouth and this time Harry swallows, takes him deeper than before. “Look at me,” Draco sighs and Harry obediently looks up. “You’re so fucking gorgeous on your knees with my cock in your mouth, your lips stretched tightly around me. Damn, Harry, you have no idea how fucking hot you look.”

Harry makes a strange sound, something that isn’t quite a moan yet it is, and Draco smiles, twists his fingers tightly into Harry’s hair and holds his head steady. He pulls back a little and thrusts into Harry’s awaiting mouth, feels himself slide down Harry’s throat and groans. He knows he isn’t going to last much longer but enjoys the feeling of Harry’s lips around him too much to stop just yet. _Just a little more_ , he thinks and thrusts, once, twice, thrice more, then grudgingly withdraws and lets his cock slip from Harry’s wet lips. Harry bemoans the loss, licks his lips, and savours a drop or two of Draco’s precome.

Draco pulls his husband up, flips him around and roughly bends him over the marble counter. Harry obeys, braces himself on his elbows, hangs his hand and Draco summons a bottle of lube from their shower. He squirts a generous amount onto his hand, coats his fingers with it, forces Harry’s legs further apart and works his lube-covered fingers in-between Harry’s arse cheeks. He seeks out his hole, finds the muscle still relaxed and slowly pushes one finger into the tight channel. Hotness engulfs him as and Harry moans. Draco steadily pushes his finger all the way in, withdraws, then does it all over again. On the third thrust, he wriggles his finger, hits Harry’s prostate, and makes him groan and slam his hand onto the marble counter. “Hm, you do like that, don’t you?” Draco teases, doesn’t wait for an answer but does it all over again. Harry bucks his hips, moans, and shamelessly begs for more.

With a low chuckle, Draco withdraws his finger, adds a second one and teases Harry until he, once again, deliriously begs for more. “Please, Draco, please, I need you inside me, please.”

“See, now that’s not at all potty-mouthed, so polite,” Draco praises him, scissors his fingers, and opens Harry up a little further. Two thrusts later, he withdraws his fingers, coats his cock with a liberal amount of lube and positions it against Harry’s entrance. He pushes slowly, breaches the tight muscle and Harry groans. Draco runs a soothing hand up and down Harry’s spine to distract him from the searing pain of that first intrusion and continues to do so until he’s sheathed all the way inside of Harry. “Okay?” he confirms and Harry moans out a very shaky _yes_. His arms slip on the smooth marble and his head is hanging so dangerously low that it’s almost in the sink. Draco uses a quick wandless spell and casts a cushioning charm on both the sink and the water tap. The least he wants is for Harry to crack his skull open while they’re having sex, it would be a rather awkward conversation to have with the Healers at the Wizarding Hospital here in New York.

Precautions taken, Draco grabs Harry’s hips with both hands, finds that spot just above Harry’s hipbone, rubs it in even, slow circles, withdraws, then slams right back into Harry, drawing a low groan from Harry. Harry’s legs tremble from the effort it takes him to stay bend over the counter, his arms tremble too and he adjusts them to stop them from sliding. Draco tightens his hold on Harry’s hips, sets a fast pace, each thrust hard and unforgiving. He angles for Harry’s prostate on every second thrust, moves to grasp Harry’s cock in his hand and strokes in time with his thrusts. He can tell that Harry is half delirious from it all and Draco can feel his orgasm slowly unfurl in the pit of his stomach. It spreads through him like wildfire, his toes curl against the warm, heated floor and he groans. His rhythm falters for a moment but he finds the resolve to steady himself, gulps in large amounts of air and thrusts deep into Harry. He comes on a low moan of Harry’s name, fills him with his come and struggles to breathe as he strokes Harry to completion and whispers for him to come and boy does Harry come, he comes hard, spurting several streaks of his seed all over Draco’s hand. He coats the marble counter too and Draco’s name repeatedly falls from his lips as he shakes and shudders and trembles through his impressive orgasm.

Once Harry has calmed a little, Draco slowly pulls out of him and helps Harry to straighten up. His husband whines at the sudden change in position and Draco draws him in for a leisurely kiss.

“I think we need another shower,” he mumbles against Harry’s swollen lips and his husband nods enthusiastically.

“Bloody hell, Draco you’re fucking hot when you take charge like that,” Harry grins lopsidedly, a blissed-out expression on his face.

“I will forgive that potty mouth of yours, but only because you’re praising me,” Draco laughs.

“Typical Slytherin,” Harry chuckles, moves a little and winces. “I’ll be walking funny for the rest of the day,” he frowns.

“Serves you right,” Draco smirks, entirely unfazed over the predicament his husband will find himself in once he leaves for work.

“Next time, spank me instead,” Harry suggests, gingerly crosses the bathroom and pulls the door to their enormous shower open.

“Kinky,” Draco laughs and follows Harry. He firmly smacks Harry’s delicious arse and his husband yelps, turns his head and glares.

“I said, next time.”

“Just checking what the imprint of my hand on your arse looks like,” Draco teases and growls when Harry’s drags him further into the shower and slams him against the marble tiles.

“Don’t make me leave my hand imprints all over you, Malfoy, you know it would look so good on that pale skin of yours.”

“Is that a promise?” Draco pushes and groans when the flat of Harry’s hand connects with his thigh. It stings, yet it feels oh so good. He tilts his head back, moans and willingly parts his legs when Harry pushes his thigh in-between them. “You’ll never make it into work if you continue this,” Draco informs him and Harry laughs.

“That’s the plan, my love,” he whispers, captures Draco’s mouth in a leisure kiss and turns the water on.

“I’ll get in touch with some contractors and have a playroom installed then, shall I?” Draco mumbles as Harry pulls away from their kiss.

“What an excellent reason to quit the Aurors,” he smirks then kisses Draco again. “We can spend all day having mind-blowing sex.”

“Does that mean we’re staying in New York?” Draco teases a while later when they stop kissing again and he’s managed to get some air into his lungs.

“You wish, Malfoy. We’re on the first Portkey back to London, the moment they stop holding me hostage.”

 _I think not,_ Draco thinks to himself but says nothing else.


	9. Christmas In London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, making up for yesterday, trying to anyway.
> 
> [ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/13414151@N02/46130499251/in/dateposted-public/)

**_December 9 th, 2013_ **

“Why exactly are we spending our evening in a toy shop?” Harry asks as he dutifully follows his husband while simultaneously trying to avoid a seemingly never-ending stream of little humans excitedly zigzagging around between all the extravagant displays.

“Because I need a Christmas gift for Birgit’s son and you need a bunch of things to send home to London for the Granger-Weasley brats and all the other Weasley offspring,” Draco replies without stopping or batting an eyelid. Harry frowns at Draco’s inappropriate moniker for his best friend’s children, though he must admit that the extended Weasley clan, all born post-war, are a force to be reckoned with. He honestly doesn’t know how Arthur and Molly Weasley deal with it when all their grandchildren descent upon the Burrow, it’s pure madness.

“Why do you always think of everything?” Harry mutters under his breath, narrowly avoids a young boy and surreptitiously casts a wandless cushioning charm when a little toddler falls over her own feet in her excitement to chase after her older brother. Her surprised face at the soft titled floor makes him chuckle and he quickens his steps to keep up with Draco. “What exactly are we buying?”

“I haven’t got the foggiest, that’s what I need you for. I’m not good at buying stuff for kids, you damn well know that. I’m just good at remembering that we need to buy gifts.” Draco stops in front of a large miniature version of London and they both watch an old-fashioned locomotive wind its way through the familiar streets. A very realistic model of Big Ben chimes seven o’clock and Harry thinks that the miniature train is heading towards King’s Cross. Stepping a little closer to both the display and Draco, Harry sneaks an arm around his husband’s waist and squeezes his hip gently.

“I’d love to take the Hogwarts Express just one more time,” he whispers quietly, his silent confession for Draco’s ears only.

“That can be arranged,” Draco turns his head and smiles at him. Harry desperately wants to close the gap between them and kiss his husband but he’s acutely aware of the fact that they are presently standing in the middle of a toy shop filled with excited children, anxious parents and way too much noise and visual stimuli. “Wait ‘till we get home,” Draco whispers, seemingly having read his mind and Harry smiles softly. It doesn’t even occur to him to remind Draco that New York is not home and that their penthouse apartment is just a temporary abode.

“Why are we buying Muggle toys?” Harry asks in part to distract himself from casting a Disillusionment Charm to disguise them and in part because he really does want to know.

“Because Birgit’s son is a Muggle and because they Weasley brats are Arthur Weasley’s grandchildren,” Draco laughs, then steps away from the display of a wintery London Town.

“Are we spending a reasonable amount of money or an obscene amount of money?” Harry calls after Draco, avoids yet another excited child and catches up with his husband near a long aisle of an assortment of puzzles ranging from jigsaws suitable for toddlers to advanced jigsaws for adults and very invested teenagers.

“Entirely up to you,” Draco shrugs and Harry grabs his wrist, drags him down the aisle of puzzles and grins.

“Obscene it is then, and the first gift is for you. I’m going to get you the biggest, most difficult Muggle puzzle they have.”

“Aren’t you just a delightful idiot to be married to?” Draco mocks him but the excited look in his eyes gives him away.

“I so am,” Harry winks. “5000 pieces enough to keep you occupied for an afternoon?”

“Better make it two, in case I finish the first one before lunch,” Draco grins.

“Duly noted, Malfoy. You do know that you’re not allowed to use magic to finish it though, right?”

Draco instantly gives him a reproachful look and places his hand over his heart. “How dare you insinuate I would cheat on a puzzle?” he asks and Harry can’t help but burst into a fit of giggles. It earns him a strange look from a young mother but he pays her no heed.

“Dunno, you being Slytherin and all…” he shrugs and ducks when Draco goes to clip him around the head.

“Like you’d never cheat,” Draco glares.

“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t, but I’ve been married to a Malfoy for too long, can’t be held accountable for anything I do, my sanity has been compromised,” Harry chuckles, grabs Draco’s hand and together they make their way down to the end of the puzzles aisle and choose two of the most difficult puzzles they possibly can. One is a 5000-piece photo of the Empire State Building and another an 8000-piece painting of a quaint-looking French street lined with cafés. Draco vows to finish them both before the end of the week and Harry buys him some glue to secure all the pieces together so that they can hang the completed jigsaws up in the living room. Two hours later, it’s nearly nine o’clock, they leave with several bags stuffed full of a huge assortment of toys and Harry is nearly three-thousand dollars poorer.


	10. A Question Of Class

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weirdly enough, given the picture is so damn suggestive, this post so utterly vanilla that I'm starting to wonder whether I really wrote this...
> 
> [ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/13414151@N02/46130499151/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 

**_December 10 th, 2013_ **

“Potter, you’ve got to be bloody kidding me!” Draco snaps angrily, arms crossed above his chest just as Harry attempts to charm a long strand of colourful Christmas lights to wrap itself around their massive Christmas tree without getting everything entangled up with everything. “Take those horrid fake lights down, they look like a gay rainbow parade gone wrong. If you even just attempt to continue to disgrace our tree and this apartment with that asinine Muggle contraption, I swear I will hex your balls to the North Pole!”

Harry stills his wand and the Christmas lights float aimlessly in mid-air. He turns to look at Draco, who shakes his head, draws his own wand, and resolutely banishes the Christmas lights back into the box, Harry just pulled them out of. “No, no, no, absolutely and unequivocally no,” Draco says a little more fiercely than he had intended to and Harry grins.

“Are you quite finished having a heart attack over there?” Harry asks with an amused expression that Draco really just wants to hex off his face. “It’s just a couple of colourful Christmas lights.”

“Colourful Christmas lights?” Draco scoffs. “Those are abhorrent.”

“Fine, you bossy queen, I won’t put them on the tree,” Harry laughs and Draco gasps.

“What did you just call me?” he shrieks and Harry raises an eyebrow at him but says nothing further. He knows better than to take another step.

“I love you, Draco Malfoy,” he says instead and Draco glares at him, then stalks off into their bedroom and pointedly slams the door closed. A locking charm follows and Harry sighs, sinks onto the floor, braces himself on his arms and looks up at their massive tree. He hadn’t meant for their banter to end in an argument but he understands Draco well enough to know that going after him while he’s steaming with anger won’t solve the problem at all. Instead, Harry summons the box, filled with those long strands of colourful Christmas lights and as he stares at them a thought strikes him. He suddenly recalls the massive Christmas trees that always decorates the entrance hall at Malfoy Manor and more specifically, he remembers the beautiful fairy lights floating in-between the green branches.

Reaching inside the box, Harry begins the painstaking process of detaching over one-hundred colourful tiny lamps from the strand of Christmas lights. Once he’s got a pile of lamps in front of him, Harry begins the assiduous exercise of picking up a light, using a levitation charm to make the lamp float in front of him and then transfiguring it into a tiny sparkling fairy light, which he gently sticks to their tree with a permanent sticking charm. He ignores his Auror partner’s Patronus, asking where the hell he is and why he isn’t in work… _again_ and by the time Draco has sufficiently cooled off and emerges from their bedroom, it’s dark outside and Harry is absolutely exhausted because he has transfigured nearly a hundred lamps from that blasted strand of Christmas lights into beautiful silver fairy lights that look like angels.

The moment Draco lays eyes on their stunning Christmas tree, he stills and his mouth drops open. He stares in complete disbelief, silently draws his wand, and summons an empty glass from their kitchen. He casts _Aguamenti_ , fills the glass with cool, fresh water and sends it floating over to where Harry is still sitting on the floor. Harry plucks the glass out of the air, downs it with two large gulps and smiles at Draco, who approaches him, sinks to his knees on the fluffy rug beneath them and wordlessly kisses him. When they both draw away from the kiss, Harry smiles, runs his fingers through Draco’s hair, falls back and pulls Draco right on top of him. “Told you, I love you, Draco Malfoy,” he whispers and Draco chuckles, kisses him again and they don’t say anything else for the rest of the evening.


	11. An Ornamental Distraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, I'm going to have to keep playing catch-up with this. Rather distracted with another fic, that's taking up literally every minute of my day and night...
> 
> [ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/13414151@N02/46130498991/in/dateposted-public/)

**_December 11 th, 2013_ **

With his hands wrapped around his favourite mug, Harry finds himself staring at a beautiful golden Christmas ornament, tied to the evergreen wreath that’s decorating the door to the Auror break room. He is the only one inside the room and that suits him just fine. The noisy open-plan office he shares with his team, a bunch of Junior Aurors as well as a whole bunch of imbecile Trainee Aurors — _Harry fervently hopes that they, for their own sakes, won’t ever pass their final exams_ — does not offer even just a minute of solitude and Harry absolutely has enough of it all. He is not a walking, talking spell book and while he doesn’t mind helping a less-experienced Auror to find his or her footing, he would really appreciate if they at least tried to do a bit of research before running to him for help.

“Bah!” Harry grumbles in frustration and as his eyes catch that Christmas ornament again, he finds himself reminded of his father’s Animagus form. He draws his wand, focuses on his happiest memory, and wordlessly produces a Patronus. His faithful stag instantly shoots from the tip of his wand and appears in front of him, soundlessly digging his hooves into the ground. Harry smiles and, biased as it may sound, decides that his Patronus-stag is far more impressive than that Christmas ornament. He beckons his stag to come closer, reaches out and pauses. His Patronus pushes its nose against his palm and a sense of complete calmness washes over Harry. “What would you do?” he asks quietly and his Patronus blinks and unwaveringly holds his gaze until Harry sighs.

“Whatever makes you happy,” a voice that sounds like a strange fusion of his father’s and Draco’s voice, tells him and glancing at his wristwatch, Harry banishes his Patronus, leaves the break room and prepares to leave MACUSA. This time, he bothers to tell his partner, whom he finds sat at his desk, working his way through a pile of unnecessary paperwork. _Some things will never change_ , Harry thinks to himself, grabs his winter coat and taps his wand against a large pile of paperwork. The case files shrink immediately and Harry pockets them, then makes to leave. Once outside, he finds a secluded corner and disapparates into thin air. Minutes later he appears right on top of the crown of the Statue of Liberty, sits down and allows his feet to dangle over the edge. He thoughtfully casts a Disillusionment Charm, which makes him shudder, over himself and watches the early winter sun slowly disappear. Dusk falls rapidly and shivering at the fierce wind howling all around him, Harry casts a warming charm.

“What would make me happy?” he asks himself, ponders the question until it’s pitch dark all around him and does not come up with a definitive answer. The New York Skyline looks breath-taking from where he’s sat and one name repeatedly pops into his head: _Draco_. Yes, Draco most definitely makes him happy and has done so for many years, but it still doesn’t answer his question. He knows that he is no longer happy with his job, but what he doesn’t know, or isn’t sure about anymore, is whether it’s really because he is stuck in New York City on a forced assignment he literally has zero interest in. Or does his unhappiness stem from the fact that Christmas is approaching fast and on top of trying to work out what would make him happy, he can’t seem to work out whether he absolutely needs to spend Christmas in London, or whether being with Draco will be enough. He’s applied for a Portkey back home over the holidays but both the President of MACUSA _and_ Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt shot him down and the thought of that makes Harry’s blood boil. How dare they keep him hostage like that?

When his stomach rumbles, Harry decides that he’s done enough brooding for one evening and even though he feels none the wiser, he finds himself getting to his feet. His stomach rumbles yet again, a thoughtful and insistent reminder of the fact that he’s skipped dinner and removing the Disillusionment Charm, Harry apparates straight into the alleyway closet to his home. His sudden appearance startles a grey pigeon, but he ignores its rather reproachful look. Instead, he makes his way home, almost jogs down the road, hastily greets Sean, who is on duty behind the concierge desk, and calls the lift.

The moment he steps into Draco’s and his penthouse apartment, he takes off his coat and boots, searches the place for Draco and finds him lounging on their bed with a good book. Despite his hunger, he crawls onto the bed, takes the book from Draco, and kisses him soundly. “My voice of reason, I love you,” he whispers against his husband’s velvety soft lips and smiles. Draco chuckles, but doesn’t question him. Instead, wraps his arms around him and deepens their kiss.

They only part when Harry’s stomach rumbles yet again and laughing, Draco reaches for his wand to summon a large sandwich he apparently, and thoughtfully, prepared for Harry.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it, but why the sudden declaration of love?” Draco inquires as Harry takes a hearty bite from his cold turkey sandwich with cucumber, lettuce, and tomato.

“A stag told me to do it,” Harry grins in-between bites and shaking his head, Draco picks up his book and resumes reading. “Weren’t you gonna finish one of the jigsaws?” Harry asks and Draco looks up from his book.

“The Empire State Building one is finished,” he answers with a shrug and Harry shakes his head.

“I think we ought to commission a 10,000-piece one of me,” he jokes.

“Naked?” Draco asks with a hopeful expression. “Because that one I would take my time with.”

Harry rolls his eyes, doesn’t say anything else and continues eating instead.


End file.
